


The Ghost and Ms. Romanoff

by kiss_me_cassie



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BUT I SWEAR ITS HAPPY!, Character Death, Death, F/M, Fluff, Ghosts, Happy Ending, not sad!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:41:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22754929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiss_me_cassie/pseuds/kiss_me_cassie
Summary: There must be a way for a ghost and a real estate agent to come to a happy compromise on selling a haunted house? Clint and Nat figure it out.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Minor Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers - Relationship
Comments: 29
Kudos: 54
Collections: Be Compromised Promptathon





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gsparkle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gsparkle/gifts).



> For the be_compromised Valentine's Promptathon and gsparkles. (I suppose I should have waited until the promptathon closed to post, but I need validation. ;))
> 
> PROMPT:  
> ghost: BOOO GET OUT  
> real estate agent: it's me, dummy  
> ghost: oh! hey, how's the house sale going?  
> real estate agent:  
> real estate agent: not great

Natasha punched in the key code to the empty house, then let herself in and peered into the inky darkness of the living room, hoping to spot Clint's shadow in the room somewhere. 

She gave herself a little mental shake. Clint wouldn't be hanging around in the dingy, dated living room when no one was around. More likely the kitchen. Or maybe not. What would a ghost do in a kitchen? Especially one that hadn't been updated since 1975? Not much.

So where would a ghost hang out in the abandoned house where he'd died? There really wasn't a good answer. Maybe she should try talking to the ceiling? People always looked at the ceiling in movies whenever they were talking to ghosts. Why not give it a shot?

Feeling silly as hell, she looked up and spoke to the water damaged spots on the ceiling.

"Listen, I know you think it’s funny to scare away all the clients I bring here, but I really need this commission, ok? My boss is starting to grumble about my continued future with the agency."

The light fixture in the entry rattled and then a cold draft drifted down from the stairs. So she hadn't been that far off. Maybe he wasn't in the ceiling, per se, but he was definitely somewhere upstairs. 

She leaned gingerly against the banister railing and looked up towards the landing. "Clint?"

"Behind you," he said, and sure enough when she turned around there he was, in the same ratty purple t-shirt and jeans he'd been in every time she'd seen him. He shot her a cocky grin and a wave. "Hi."

"Um… Hi." 

Damn, but it was unnerving how hot he looked like that. But it really didn't matter how hot he looked, did it? He was dead. A ghost. She couldn't have a relationship with a ghost. Could she? 

She shook her head to clear it. That's not why she was here. She was here because so far Clint had scared seven potential buyers away from this house. Seven. And with the condition this place was in, she was lucky she'd managed to get even that many to look at it.

She squared her shoulders. "I need you to stop scaring my clients."

"The kids in that family you brought today were assholes," he said, making a face, and well, Natasha couldn't really argue with him about that one. They'd been two of the biggest brats she'd ever met. Still...

"I don't care," she said stubbornly. "I need to sell this house."

And really, when had this become her life, where she spent half her time pining for a ghost and the other half arguing with the same ghost about the best way to sell his house?

Clint crossed his arms -- oh god, those absolutely amazing arms -- across his chest. "And I will one hundred percent help you when you find the right buyers."

"I can't wait for the 'right' buyers!" she exclaimed. "I need to sell it now! My boss is furious it's taking so long and keeps saying I don't use my feminine wiles enough to sell the customers."

Clint mumbled something she couldn't quite make out then said, "You should take that other agent 's suggestion -- The one who was here last week? What was her name? Sharon? -- You should go work for her agency. Then you'd have more time."

"Or maybe you could just not scare away my clients," she said. How could she make him understand? Everything she'd built since moving here was on the verge of collapse. If she could just sell this one house... She lifted pleading eyes to his. "I really, really need this, Clint."

He refused to meet her eyes, and instead looked down at his converse sneakers. " _You_ could buy this house."

She snorted. It didn't matter how much she wished she could share this house with him. She was in no position to buy an ancient house that was nearly ready to be condemned. "No. Absolutely not."

"Then, I guess I'll just… be nicer," he said sadly. "The very next client you bring. I'll wow them with how quiet and soothing this place can be. And then you can leave."

Oh God. He'd finally said he'd help her sell the house and now because of these feelings she'd developed for him, she wanted to cry. "Clint…"

"The thing is, I like you," he said quietly, still looking down at his sneakers and rubbing at the back of his neck. "And if you sell this place, I won't see you anymore and, well, it's been really nice having you around."

Damn, damn, and triple damn. He wasn't supposed to have developed a crush on her, too. But now Clint was looking at her with his heart on his imaginary sleeve, and Natasha wanted to fling herself into his arms and kiss him. 

She didn't even know if that was possible or not, but did it matter at this point?

Screwing up her courage, she took a deep breath before saying what she'd been thinking for a while now. Even before he'd blurted out why he'd been chasing away all her clients. 

"Listen, my house is a brownstone in one of the older sections of town. It's not as old as this place, but it's in way better shape," she started. "Do you think you could maybe, possibly, consider living there?"

"In a brownstone?" he asked, confused.

"In my brownstone. With me," she clarified.

His grin lit up the entire entryway. "I'm willing to try if you are."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have lost my freaking mind. No need to remind me.  
> Unbeta'd.

As it turned out, relocating Clint to Natasha's Brownstone wasn't nearly as hard as either of them had imagined it might be. They didn't even need to consult a psychic or a priest. Or find Clint a pair of ruby slippers, although Clint did tap the heels of his beat up converse together a few times to test it out, with absolutely no results.

All they needed was for Natasha to bring a few artifacts of Clint's from when he was alive to her house, show Clint several pictures of the brownstone, and then have him think really hard about _her_ and _home_. And poof! He was moved.

Well, maybe not that easily. They hadn't exactly been sure it would work or how they would confirm he'd moved where they intended so Natasha had asked Sharon to hang out at her house for the afternoon. And maybe, just maybe, Natasha hadn't fully explained what was going on, because about a minute after Clint disappeared, Sharon called her, shrieking about the man who had suddenly appeared in the living room and _What the hell is going on, Natasha?!_

It had taken a while to calm her down, but afterwards, Sharon had seemed fairly accepting, leaving the brownstone with only a stern look at Clint and a vaguely worried _Call me if you need ANYTHING, ok?_ to Natasha.

And from there, things seemed to go fairly well. Sure, it took some time to coordinate their schedules (Clint didn't really sleep and kept forgetting Natasha needed time for both that and food) but pretty soon, they'd figured out something that worked for both of them.

The hardest thing they'd had to deal with was a lack of touching. 

"I can't really touch-touch things," Clint admitted, frowning. "I can only move the air around things and kind of make them… move… that way."

"So you can open my curtains, but you can't actually kiss me?" Natasha asked.

He nodded sadly. "Exactly."

"Oh." 

It had been disappointing but not a deal breaker. Especially after they discovered that simply moving air had its advantages. 

"So I've been thinking," Natasha said one night as she lay in bed, Clint hovering beside her in a facsimile of lying down. "You can't touch me, but you can touch my sheets, right?"

"I can manipulate the air around your sheets," Clint corrected. "That's not really touching."

"Close enough. And if you can move air around my sheets, you can presumably move air around _me_ , right?"

His brow crinkled up in confusion, "Uh, I guess?" 

He looked absolutely, adorably confused and she wished she could lean over and kiss the wrinkles away. But for now, she was going to try the next best thing.

Nervously biting her lip, she slid the strap of her camisole down off her shoulder, then looked over at Clint, hoping he would understand what she was attempting to do. And praying like hell that it actually worked. 

Luckily, Clint caught on immediately. Grinning, he shifted position and suddenly there was a warm breeze ghosting across her shoulder, then down, further and further, the silk of her nightie whispering against her skin. Natasha shivered, and the air grew warmer and more moist as it caressed her stomach and then even lower. 

From there the feelings slowly built until Natasha took matters into her own hands, so to speak, as Clint whispered encouragement. Afterwards, when she finally regained her breath and opened her eyes, Clint was gazing down at her, a look of awe upon his face.

"Wow," he said."That was… Wow. I want to do that for you again and again and again."

She smiled giddily at him. "Well, we do need to perfect our timing. And figure out how to make you feel just as amazing."

"Then maybe we should start again right now," Clint suggested with a leer, making her hair stir against the pillow.  
She grinned back. "Maybe we should."


	3. Chapter 3

~~~

The windows rattled and the air turned cold, whipping Sharon's long skirt around her legs. A light flickered toward the back of the house and then…

"BOO!" a voice shouted from right behind Sharon before dissolving into giggles.

"Jesus!" Sharon exclaimed as she wheeled around and pointed an accusatory finger at Natasha's shadowy figure. "Don't do that!"

"But it's fun," Natasha said with a grin. 

"For you maybe," Sharon grumbled. "Not so much for me."

"Spoilsport."

"Easy for you to say. Fury thinks I'm the most heartless realtor he has, trying to sell your house a mere two weeks after your accident." She paused and looked more closely at Natasha. "Although I have to say you look way happier now that you're, you know…"

"Dead?" Natasha laughed.

Sharon winced, but since Natasha didn't seem to mind saying it so bluntly, she just gave a little mental shrug before saying it, too. "Yeah. Dead."

Natasha nodded. "I am. I finally feel like I know where and to whom I belong."

"Speaking of that… Is Clint around?"

"Right here," he said, suddenly appearing on Sharon's left.

God, she'd never get used to how they appeared and disappeared like that. Although she'd better learn how - and fast.

"Good. Because I have news for both of you."

"You can't sell the brownstone to my nasty old neighbors. They just want to knock it down and build a garage," Natasha interjected.

"Which I'm pretty sure is against the zoning laws in this part of town," Clint said. Natasha's raised a brow and he added, "I told you, I built things before."

"Yes, but --"

"Uh, guys? Can we get back to my news?" Sharon asked.

"Sorry. Sure, go ahead."

Sharon took a deep breath. "Ok, so…"

"So?"

"So Steve and I were talking and, well, we want to buy your house."

Natasha grinned and held out her arms in a pseudo hug while Clint beamed down at her. "That's fabulous!"

"But," Sharon added, "We have some conditions."

"What kind of conditions?"

"One, we have separate areas that are ours and ours alone. That means you guys get a couple rooms, and we get a couple of rooms, and no one is allowed in the others' space."

"Done."

"Two, limited shenanigans. I mean, sure it’s cool to spook that creepy FedEx guy -- what's his name again? Sitwell? -- every once and awhile, but no serious scaring of guests."

"I guess we could limit things."

"And three, you have to agree to help take care of the baby."

"Sharon!" 

Wow, who knew a ghost could squeal that loudly? Sharon guessed it made sense, but she'd never heard Natasha hit quite that pitch before. 

"When? And how? And when?" Clint asked excitedly.

Sharon giggled. "How? The old fashioned way. And when? In about five months."

Natasha's grin faded just a little bit. "You know we can't actually hold a baby or rock them, right?"

"Yes, but you can still talk to her and she can still see your face and be comforted by you. And when she gets older, she'll have two of the fiercest protectors a parent could ask for. That's really all we ask for our little girl."

"A girl," Natasha said, her image shimmering a little bit in what Sharon assumed was a show of emotion. "Steve's going to have the little girl he always wanted."

Sharon nodded. "So what do you say? We make a family of it? The lonely, neglected ghost, the happier-dead-than-alive femme fatale, the out-of-time artist and me? Sound good?"

Clint clapped his hands together. "That's the best idea I've ever heard."


End file.
